


The Only Girl I've Ever Loved Was Born With Roses In Her Eyes

by warmommy



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-02-27 20:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmommy/pseuds/warmommy
Summary: Tumblr request fill. Hugo just so happens to be in a bell tower with a woman who hates him, and she just so happens to carry an extremely powerful rifle.“Please don’t cry. I can’t stand to see you cry”“Well. Yell, scream, say something. Anything”Since we last left Angel and Hugo, they’ve wound up in a town under siege. The sky is red and black, the enemy is already taking the streets, and they and their friends have completely run out of time. But not really. Nothing is ever what it seems, and what they’ve done has lasting consequences. I cried the whole time I wrote this, but it’s so sweet, and all the heavy parts are done by the end of this chapter. There are lots of feel-goods for this now multi-chapter work. Hugo Stiglitz proves yet again that he’s a deeply thoughtful and very good man. Oh, and smut.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find this and a lot more at my tumblr, warmommy.tumblr.com!

The blood was bad between them, or was that the how the saying went? Hugo Stiglitz was up in the crow’s nest with her, relegated to the task of being her spotter. She sat, immobile, staring down the scope of that Springfield, and he rarely saw her move. She was good at her job, and especially good at her purpose. Hugo was not needed, nor was he wanted, so he sat in the floor of that old bell tower in a ruined town in the south of France, and most of that time, he was staring at her.

When he had first been rescued by the Basterds, she had not been present. She’d been up in another crow’s nest, he later discovered, but no one ever bothered to explain why there was a short young woman in their midst. Her hands were small, her figure was nice, she was never responsible for the ‘heavy lifting’, so it was a curious puzzle for him to ponder. At first he thought she was the radio operator, but that turned out to be the pretty one, Utivich.

The Basterds got him good and drunk to celebrate his 'release’ from prison, and it was that night that he’d made the mistake of asking her if she was a  _service_  member. She avoided him every chance she got, after that, but, before she’d turned and walked away, Hugo could’ve sworn he saw tears in her eyes. As far as he knew, she never revealed this incident to anyone else, and it was better off that way.

He felt atrocious the first time he saw her kill. An enemy sniper had only barely missed Wicki as the man moved to capture one of the gassing vans left by the unit of Einsatzgruppen they’d scattered. Another great, thunderous round  _whooshed_  above his head, and, from behind Hugo’s position, a man’s body hit the wet paving stones.

It was why the Basterds called her 'angel’. It wasn’t a patronising nickname like baby or sweetheart. He’d understood it from that moment forward, when Wicki looked back at him, that adrenaline-soaked survival hood covering his face. “ _Das ist der Engel über deiner Schulter.”_

Angel was the perfect marksman, if you listened to any of her 'brothers’. They were proud of her. They were happy to have her.

And Hugo had insinuated that she was some kind of a whore.

Later, he and the Basterds were gathered around that mobile killing unit, watching the flames climb sky high as the despicable thing popped and squelched and roared. It was exhausting and disheartening on a level that Hugo was not emotionally prepared for, so he could hardly guess what it meant to all of his new Jewish friends, but they stared, sombre and silent. This place where their people had been killed on the go, and there was no way for them to accurately place just how many Jews had been murdered in that tiny space.

A loud, overwhelming sob broke the silence, and, when he looked around, Hugo saw Angel tearfully hanging on to Wicki, the only other European Jew present. In spite of how careful he was, how careful he had always been, to remain at complete emotional distance from other people, that moment crippled Hugo. He knew that she was imagining her family, her friends, perhaps a boyfriend or her husband, stuffed into that mobile chamber, and now he was, too. His eyes had widened, and now this was personal for him, as well. No German would ever get their hands on Angel. She was never going to suffer such an unjust and inhuman fate, not if he was still breathing.

Of course, Hugo never told her of this vow of his, but he was thinking of it now, as the hours crept past and he was still stuck in this goddamn bell tower. Normally, monotony was a good thing. He could think in monotony. No one was talking in monotony. It was fine, he supposed, if he weren’t sitting in the company of one other person who truly despised him. Hugo took out the watch he’d stolen off a body, one of many, but this being his favourite, and it was finally time.

“It’s four,” he announced. He found it rather odd that they had to speak English to each other, as he understood absolutely no French and her German was severely lacking. Well, not odd. Interesting, perhaps? The way that the translations had to be made, from German to English, from English to French. How long until one of them made a serious mistake?

Angel put her gun aside with no fuss and swapped places with him. She was very unconvinced of his marksmanship, however, so now there was anxious, tense monotony. Well,  _more_.

“We’ve been here four hours,” Hugo said, checking his scope’s magnification.

“Yes, I gathered that when you told me that it was four o'clock.”

He ignored it. “That leaves sixty-eight hours remaining. Those might pass quicker, if you start hating me a little less.”

“I don’t hate you, Sergeant. I don’t think about you.” Her accent was so heavy when she was in an effusive state that it took him a moment to parse out the full meaning.

“Sure,” he responded. “But I still have a point.” He heard her muttering in rapid French beneath her breath. “Well. Yell, scream, say something. Anything. Obviously you want to, and hopefully it’ll make it easier to work with me. I deserve it, after what I said to you.”

“I do not understand how starting a fight, especially in our current situation, would stand to improve anything.”

“It doesn’t matter what you say, I won’t bicker with you.”

“Oh? Well, I wish you’d died at Stalingrad.”

Hugo tilted his head, blinking. “I wasn’t at Stalingrad.”

Her arms were crossed, and she shrugged. “I still have a point.”

Hugo turned back to the window, back to his scope. “Continue, then.”

“This is all silly and ridiculous, a waste of time. You are the strangest person that I have ever met, and you have this propensity to be so extraordinarily rude. You must not have a very high opinion of women. And your head is a square. The only thing that you are good at is breaking orders and acting like an impetuous child or dog, and that’s why you’re here, where I can keep an eye on you, because someone has to, and this way, you’re not in  _their_  way.”

Angel went on this way, short spurts of insults whenever they switched positions, until the signal fire was lit across the ruined town, and they were safe to leave the window for a time. Hugo was trying to build a new little fire so he could eat something hot for the first time in days when she spoke again. Her voice was more hoarse, morose. “Why did you think that about me? Is that something you wanted from me?”

He looked up, startled, and looked at her for a long time. “Do you want to know the truth?”

After a moment, she nodded.

Hugo abandoned his work for the time being and brought his knee up to lean against. “You are small. They are big. I was afraid for you. I was drunk, and I did not care if I had to kill all of them, if it meant you would be safe from that sort of abuse. I know that it was a horrendous assumption to make, and I am sorry.”

Shock strained her voice even more. “Why do you assume such  _terrible_  things? And about people who risked their lives to help you?”

“Why would I assume terrible things about people I don’t know? That’s a little naive. You should be assuming all kinds of terrible things about everyone that you lay eyes on, being a good Jewish girl in Nazi France.” He chanced a smile at her. “Assuming the worst keeps you safer, and you’re usually pleasantly surprised, like I was. You were no sex servant, just an extremely well-respected and prized sniper. If you don’t want to assume the worst about people, that’s fine. I’ll do it for you.”

“I  _am_  a good Jewish girl, I’ll have you know. My parents never allowed me to be in the company of men I was not related to, after nightfall. I’ve never been with anyone at all, and I won’t until after I am married, and I will have Jewish children, and I’ll…” She cut herself off suddenly, covering her hand with her mouth. It took a few seconds for it to register that she was crying. Hugo moved closer, and her entire face was horror-struck and so deeply saddened.

“Julia?” He only ever addressed her by her proper name. It was prettier in German than French or English, so he always said it that way, too. Hugo crossed the dusty spaces between them and sat beside her, one hand on her shoulder. “Julia?”

“I’ll probably never be able to marry a Jewish man and have Jewish children, will I?”

Oh, it was heartbreaking.

“What do you mean? Of course you can. You can marry who you like and have children and have a good life that way. What could stop you?” Hugo felt an intense electrical buzz throughout his entire body, and he just wanted to make this go away. Of course he knew what she meant. Of course he knew why she was so very despondent.

“Sometimes I think…” She sniffled and tried pulling herself together, but only wound up collapsing against his side. “They’ll win. The Germans will take over half the world and the Japanese will take over the other half and they will hunt down every last Jewish person and kill them, including myself and my babies.”

Hugo pictured three small girls, all in white dresses with bows in their hair, with Angel’s charming smile and button nose. He closed his eyes, breathing hard and heavy through that devastating and grief-stricken thought. He knew that many children just like them had been killed already, indiscriminately. “That will never happen. Even if the Germans win the war, I’ll find a way to protect you, understand? No matter if you hate me or who wins, I will take care of you until the day I die, okay?”

Angel just kept on crying quietly against the shoulder of his old uniform, and, even though the insignias had been torn off and the entire thing was worn to hell, he greatly wished he had worn something different. The appalling irony of comforting a sweet Jewish woman in a Wehrmacht uniform wasn’t lost on him.

“Please don’t cry. I can’t stand to see you cry.“ Hugo tucked one arm around her in a way he hoped would not be misconstrued and supported her weight a little better. For the first time in recent memory, he was hugging another person. He closed his eyes; it was  _good_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since we last left Angel and Hugo, they’ve wound up in a town under siege. The sky is red and black, the enemy is already taking the streets, and they and their friends have completely run out of time. But not really. Nothing is ever what it seems, and what they’ve done has lasting consequences. I cried the whole time I wrote this, but it’s so sweet, and all the heavy parts are done by the end of this chapter. There are lots of feel-goods for this now multi-chapter work. Hugo Stiglitz proves yet again that he’s a deeply thoughtful and very good man. Oh, and smut.

 

Michael Zimmerman's body was in pieces. Angel tried, but she couldn't find all of him, but she'd stopped worrying about his proper burial when she realised that she wouldn't be surviving, either. With a few more blasts nearby, the building they had sought shelter in would crumble and encase them all, and that was the best case scenario. Angel hadn't given up yet, though. She and her Springfield were upstairs in an unguarded window. Hugo heard her take a shot, now and then. He looked up the spiral staircase, but couldn't see her.

He wanted to join her, but it didn't seem right to him, that Andy Kagan should die alone. He'd always seemed to Hugo a good man, with his wild-flying hair and his ease about life. Often, he had the only answers that anyone else wanted to hear. Kagan's hand was the only thing holding his guts in, though, and Hugo had the other, so that, at the very least, Kagan had one person holding on to him when he moved into the next world. A former member of the Wehrmacht, bidding a rabbi farewell.

"How is he?" Angel was thudding down the stairs, now. Maybe she'd run out of ammunition. "There's too much smoke outside. I can't see a bit of light. Andy?  _Andrew_?"

"He's here." Hugo smiled sadly at him. "He's tired."

"Fuck." Angel sat down at the bottom step and held her head between her knees. Within moments, she was sniffling, followed by the stuttered sounds of crying. "I'm sorry, Andy. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry for me." He managed a smile, though his face was white as a sheet, and she wasn't looking at him, anyway. "I'm not scared. Maybe a little bit. For you."

"Do you want a cigarette?" Hugo asked him.

"Naw, can't stand the things." Andy looked from him to Angel. "Hey," he said in a softer voice. "I'm okay. She's not."

Hugo nodded once his understanding and squeezed Andy's hand before letting go. He stepped around old office equipment and sat down by Angel, placing one palm at her lower back. "Julia. Come here."

He didn't need to tell her twice, either. She was crying against his shoulder again.

"I was being honest, you know." Hugo stroked her hair out of her face. "I can't stand to see you cry."

"Well, I'm sorry, but it's appropriate." Angel moved halfway into his lap. Surprising, but probably there were not many surprises left in store for him.

"I know you wanted more out of life than this," he began, lips to her scalp. He didn't know where to go from there, just how it all should begin. "You remember when I said to you that I'd take care of you until the day I died?"

"Yes--I never thanked you, so thank you. You've actually done just as you said you would do, and I've never shown much appreciation for that." She sniffled again and squeezed him with one arm. "I guess everyone imagines there'll be so much more, don't they?"

"Lots of people picture themselves with a family. Some of us die young. We don't mean to, but maybe we did. You've fought for France all this time. How many kills?"

"One hundred eighty-seven."

"One hundred eighty-seven dead Nazis." Hugo smiled against her hair now. "That's a fucking lot. You did that. And you watched over us all. Der Engel über meiner Schulter."

"I did look out for you, you know. When you weren't with me. When everyone saw you weren't bad, that you're not a bad guy."

"I distinctly recall every single time I heard a bullet fly past my ear and into someone who would've killed me, otherwise. I was embarrassingly wrong about you when we met, and then I found out you were a sniper, but you had a tremendous reputation to live up to, because of what they said of you. You're the best I've ever seen, though. The best there's ever been."

"I'm a stupid fucking French girl who disobeyed her parents, joined the Resistance, met Aldo, did all of this. . ."

"You say that like you regret anything you did."

"You're right, I don't." Angel tucked herself against him when another shell landed somewhere overhead. "I regret not ever meeting my husband or having my children, but. . .I fought for my country. I fought for my people." She wiped her face with her sleeve and sat straighter. "That was a lot more important than the wishes of one silly girl."

"We're all allowed to wish. It's not as stupid as you're making it seem, don't be so hard on yourself. I always wished for one more day, and, up until now, I got it."

"That  _can’t_  be all you ever wanted for yourself. Stop trying to make yourself seem humble, you're just as full of yourself as the rest of us."

He laughed at the old joke, something that had passed between them when the blood was no longer bad. "Sure. A bed with a woman that loved me, children. Three girls, white dresses, big bows in their hair, Mary Janes. I've thought about them a lot, but never let myself wish for any of that."

"I wanted three girls, too," Angel said after a while. "I'm fucking scared. I don't want this to happen. I thought that if I did the right thing and I answered the call of God. . ."

Hugo looked over his shoulder. "Hey, Rabbi Kagan?"

"Speaking," Andy called back weakly.

The German pulled himself to his feet and reached down for Angel's hand. "Come on. You wanted to get married? I'll marry you."

"I fuckin'  _knew_  it." Andy coughed. "Come here, this's gotta be quick. Real quick."

Angel's lips parted and she blinked bewilderedly, but she took his hand, she stood, and walked with Hugo to stand before their dying friend. "You don't have to do this. You should rest."

"There's whole, huge, really good parts of the ceremony we can't do," Andy panted, ignoring her, speaking to Hugo. "But I'll do the important ones."

"Andy--"

"Shit, Angel, enough. I ain't got a lot of breath to waste. Just promise me you'll make the best of your marriage, all right? Make the best of what you've got left, 'cause in the end, it's him."

She sniffled, but held her head higher and squeezed Hugo's hand. "All right. I promise, Rabbi."

"Okay, so," Andy shifted. "Getting down to the nut-cutting. Julia Benichou, do you take Hugo Stiglitz to be your lawfully wedded husband, forsaking all others, till death parts you?"

"I do."

"Then please repeat after me. I, Julia, take you, Hugo, to be my husband, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward.”

She did, her voice soft and stumbling in some places.

"Arright. Hugo, do you take Julia to be your lawfully wedded wife, forsaking all others, till death parts you?"

He nodded. “I do.”

"Then. . .please repeat after me: I, Hugo take you. . ."

"Julia," Angel supplied her own name, becoming distraught for her dying brother.

"Yeah--to be my wife, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward.”

Hugo looked at her when he said it, wiped her tears away with his thumb. This was his job, he decided, being this one, the one to lean on.

Andy went on. "In the spirit of shared love and in full agreement, you will now confirm your intentions for the well-being of your marriage with the exchange of rings. Actually, you don't have 'em--just give each other your dog-tags, okay? Dog-tags are a symbol of the never-ending circle of love. Love has no beginning and no end, no giver and no receiver, for each is the giver and each is the receiver. May they always remind you of your vows of fidelity and undying devotion. Hugo, as a token of your love, place the dog-tags upon around your bride’s neck and repeat after me."

“Julia, I give you this ring, ah, dog-tags, as a symbol of my love and faithfulness."

“Hugo, I give you these dog-tags as a symbol of my love and faithfulness."

"This is my first ever wedding, y'know?" Andy smiled at them. "I'm glad I got to do it. I'm glad it was for the two of you. Now you just gotta shut up and listen, because this is my favourite part.

"Julia and Hugo, please take one another by the hand. These are the hands of your best friend, young and strong and full of love for you, that are holding yours on your wedding day, as you promise to love each other today, tomorrow, and forever. These are the hands that will work alongside yours, as together you build your future. These are the hands that will passionately love you and cherish you through the years, and with the slightest touch, will comfort you like no other.

"These are the hands that will hold you when fear or grief fills your mind. These are the hands that will countless times wipe the tears from your eyes; tears of sorrow, and tears of joy. These are the hands that will tenderly hold your children. These are the hands that will help you to hold your family as one. These are the hands that will give you strength when you need it. And lastly, these are the hands that even when wrinkled and aged, will still be reaching for yours, still giving you the same unspoken tenderness with just a touch.”

Angel trembled, eyes filling over with tears no matter how hard she tried. Her hand still grasped Hugo's tightly.

Andy kicked an old wine bottle over to them. Without much thought, Hugo removed his jacket and threw it down over it.

"Good man! Now shut up still. People will shout and holler over where this tradition comes from. When my mom and dad married, he told her that she was only ever going to get rid of him when she managed to put all the pieces back together again, so that's always been my favourite. Here's how it goes, Stiglitz. After I make the announcement, you smash that bottle, so she'll have even more to have to put back together before she'll ever be rid of you, and you get her the fuck out of this room, understand?"

Hugo nodded to him solemnly. He understood that request well.

"Okay, well," Andy groaned and sat up a bit straighter. "By the power vested in me, by our God and the beautiful state of Iowa, a long, long ways away, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Kiss that bitch."

Hugo stomped down on the bottle a little harder than was probably strictly needed, but, with Angel, he was soft. He cradled the back of his wife's head and kissed her, to Andy's applause. Hugo was already leading her away before Andy coughed. She looked back, as if to say goodbye, thought better of it, and looked up at Hugo.

"There's a place, upstairs." She looked suddenly as if she were eager to get away, to honour Andy's wishes. "It was kind of you. All that."

Hugo scoffed and picked her up. "Kind, nothing. You are my wife. Upstairs?"

She nodded with some surprised laughter, hooking an arm around his neck. Down the hallway of the abandoned office suite, there was a room with a single armchair, a rug, a circular end table, and, upon it, a vase full of completely intact, dead flowers. Hugo sat down with her in his lap and kissed her again, and she didn't try to stop him.

"You're the first one who's ever kissed me," she whispered, her accent thicker than he'd heard in a while.

"I highly doubt I'm the first that's ever tried." He winked and leaned back, getting them both more comfortable. Outside, the town was besieged and burning. It couldn't be past noon, but the sky was black and red. It was nice to have that one forgetful moment downstairs, and he felt a bit excited that, if even for a night, there was someone willing to take a night's worth of chances with him.

It wasn't a night she wanted or hoped for, though. Angel had hoped beyond hope for this day to come and it be beautiful, to feel loved and safe and like she had an entire life to look forward to. Not like it was ending.

He took her hands again and endeavoured to make her forget. "I was so happy when you agreed to marry me. I'm even happier, now. We have every single day, me and you. I love you with all my heart."

"I'm still scared," she admitted, although her hands didn't leave him. They clung tighter.

Hugo tucked her head down against his shoulder so that she couldn't look at the death outside, working its way in. "Julia Stiglitz has a. . .well, it. . ."

She shook with quiet giggles and pushed her hair back. "It's still a pretty name. I always did like yours. Not really the way that Aldo says it. It sounds fine in German, even better in French."

"The fuck it does." Hugo laughed along with her. "You can say it however you want to, my sweet wife."

Angel breathed in and out, and he could feel her relax a little. It made him wish they were a bit more entwined, and, fuck it, why not? He gazed out at the empty room, still mussing her hair with his fingers, and tried to think of better things to say.

"It's all just the beginning, Julia. I told you I would take care of you, and I meant it, every word. We have our home, we have each other, we have that awful cat you love so much, we'll have our first children soon. . .Can you hear their laughter? I can, clear as a bell. Our daughters. Andrea, called Andi. She'll be our first."

"I bet she will smile just like you do. It looks like a secret, every time, a wonderful secret that you share with quite few people. Maybe she will do everything the way that you do. A papa's girl. Fat little baby arms, always reaching for you. It's hard to believe someone could love someone else that much, isn't it? The way our daughter loves you."

"I worry that our second girl will make her jealous. I never had siblings, did you?"

Angel shook her head. "It's normal for children to be jealous when there is a new baby. Andi will love Claudia."

Hugo smirked. "Claudia? That's awful."

"It's a beautiful name, fit for a lovely girl! I was almost Claudia, would you love me any less?"

"No, I wouldn't, no matter how ridiculous your name. What will you call the third?"

"Oh, I don't know. It seems as though you should name her, and the surprise son that comes later."

"That's easy, just call them both Hugo and be done with it."

Angel laughed so hard, she shook them both, and he guessed he was smiling like that secret she told him about. She was kissing him, then, and he lost focus on anything but her lips, until he could feel his shirt unbuttoning. He didn't stop her. Hugo pulled her tighter against himself and, damn, the way her hair flicked and fell when she pulled her sweater over her head. He was progressing from the first man ever to kiss her to the first to ever see her undress.

Because she spent her battles aloft, or otherwise hidden, she had the softest, unmarked skin. She cried out just slightly whenever he touched her, his hand spreading wide on the prickling skin of her back. While the world fell, he moved his fingers up the notches of his wife's spine, and she was real, there with him, and she didn't feel afraid to him, anymore. She just felt like Julia; it was simple in that way.

Everything he did, he was the first, and it was intoxicating. His were the first lips to touch her nipples and make her jump just barely. His darling wife who fit so well into his arms, he was the first to help her disentangle trousers from her legs, to feel her naked chest against his.

Hugo did not ask if she was certain, because he did not want her comfort and happiness in this grand fantasy to dissipate. The shells were still falling, and the enemy would be upon them, soon. He thought of how he'd sworn no German would get to Julia and pushed those distraught memories away, because Julia was pulling him towards her. She looked shy, but ready, like her mind was settled long ago.

She balled up her sweater and shoved it beneath her head and neck, humming and chuckling just as happy as a newlywed bride, ignoring the fact that it was carpet underneath her, not a bed.

He was the first man to kiss between her legs, along her thighs, to taste what made her gasp and moan, her hand gently falling to his head.

"Remember when I said you would have my children?" Hugo breathed against her neck, her fingernails tearing the skin on his back.

He was the first man she'd ever given herself to, and he'd be the last. He kept that with him when he was lying with her, facing each other, the sweater beneath both of their heads. All he'd been able to talk about or mutter into her skin was how their children would be created just that way.

Julia Stiglitz.

That was the very last thought he had before he heard the doors downstairs splintering open. He dressed in pants and boots as quickly as he could and kissed Julia one more time.

He moved quietly, listening to the footsteps down below. He'd left his rifle downstairs, but still had four rounds in the Walther. He'd thought of it, but he just couldn't turn it on Julia, God forgive him.

"Zim? Is that Zim?"

Hugo was just about to pull the trigger at a tall figure dressed in all black and a gas mask.

"Kagan. . ."

He heard Julia running up behind him.

One of the gas masks turned up towards them, and Lieutenant Raine appeared from behind it, pulling it down from his face. "Well, good fuckin' Lord, son, what the hell did y'all  _do_?"


	3. Chapter 3

Andy was laid to rest, but all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Michael Zimmerman back together again. Wicki was the one driving the armoured truck that took them away from the damned place where their wedding had occurred, and no one really had time to speak a word about it. Angel looked panicky, but she sat beside Hugo through the entire ride through to Allied territory, and she stood beside him at Andy’s burial.

Hugo kept an eye on her, but didn’t press. He made a point to be in the background. He wasn’t sure when or if a big collapse was coming, but he wanted to be there, just in case. Her words had been brief, in the back of that truck, but he knew them to be sincere.

’ _We are married in the eyes of God. Nothing will change that but death_.’

She may not have been happy about it, visibly wasn’t, but she didn’t want to pretend that it had never happened, and neither did he. He had made his mind up about it when he’d decided to do it in the first place, and all the things that they’d said to each other, thinking they were close to death…The home, the family, the kids, the zoos, everything, he wanted it. And he was going to make it happen. Somehow.

She sat a desk, now, several drafted letters already folded and to her side.

“Will you listen to what I have written?”

Hugo took a moment to register that she was even speaking to him. She wasn’t looking at him, hadn’t acknowledged that he was in the room for the hour he’d been there. Testing the waters, he approached his new wife and stood behind her, kneading her shoulder gently. “What have you been writing, Julia?”

“I wrote a note for my mother and father, Raymond says that he can get it along to them quickly without us risking the post,” she looked over her shoulder at him, soft brown eyes animate from the light of the candles and lanterns. “One is for Zim’s wife, and the one I was…the one that I would like you to listen to is for Andy’s mother and father.”

She looked away to hide the redness of her face and the tears renewed, but Hugo nodded anyway. He put his hand on her other shoulder, pushed her hair gently to the side. “Go ahead. I’ll listen.”

Angel cleared her throat before she began. “It’s only this one part. About our…marriage. ‘Because Andy was a true friend and a loving rabbi until the moment that he passed away, he performed a ceremony of matrimony for myself and my husband, so that we may not die not knowing that God smiled on our union. We have discussed the matter and decided to call our first child Andrew or Andrea, Andy or Andi, in his honour. I know there is nothing I can say to assuage this sudden and terrible pain of losing a child, but I…’” She broke off, sniffling and reaching for a handkerchief.

Hugo leaned down, stroking her shoulder, and read the rest. “’…but I hope that one day my son or daughter will be just as kind, courageous, and admirable as was our Andy. My husband and I extend our gratitude and condolences to you.’” He kissed the top of her head, one arm coming somewhat awkwardly around her as she wept. “It’s perfect, Julia. Come away with me, I can tell you’ve been at this for a long time.”

“Let me sign my name. You should sign, as well.” She picked up her pen once more, and she struggled with writing her new surname in script. He wasn’t sure if it was hesitation because she was not quite pleased with the way things had turned out, or if perhaps she needed to get used to signing her name in a different way. His own signature was a scrawl beside hers.

“Come on.” Hugo took her hand and helped her to stand. The Resistance had afforded them a space together, and that was where he took her now, somewhere cool and dark where she could rest, finally. They were both clean, now, changed out of clothes stained with blood and soot, grease and oil. He noticed, then, that the little silver bow in her hair was actually made of metal, set a the top of a tortoise shell hair comb. Something about the sight of it brought a smile to his face, however negligible. “You have never lost yourself. I still see so many echoes of who you were before the war, in you now.”

“I’m afraid that you’ve never found yourself. You never had a chance to, maybe.” She moved about, lighting candles. “Did you speak with Aldo?”

“Not at any length. He gave me some papers to sign, said that you had to, as well, and he emphasised that it would be the end of the talking. That it’s done. He said that, loudly, over Donny’s voice, and then he threw a half-eaten orange at him.” Hugo hoped that would bring some more lightness to this discussion of theirs.

She sat, tense, mechanical, on the edge of the bed, her hands like a lotus in her lap. “I have been trying to summon up some way to make everything work, and I know that not all of it will.”

“No, you don’t know that. It is fine, Julia. It can all be that way. I will give you everything that I said I would. I didn’t want to die, either. I wanted children, too. I’ve asked that fucking Wicki about Judaism–I don’t know the first thing about Christianity, let alone Judaism, but maybe that’s better, a clean slate, and you can draw the Star of David and all our daughters’ names all over it,” Hugo contended.

“There have been many, many women, in history, who’ve married people that they didn’t know or liked far less. You didn’t do what you did in order to fuck one more time before you died, you did it out of affection for me. You’re not as rotten as anyone believes, you’re very careful and you don’t understand people as well as others might. I’m rambling, now, I apologise.” She looked up at him and reached for one of his coarse hands. “You were kind to Andy. You were nicer to him than it even occurred to me, and he was my rabbi. He was dying and I was upstairs with my rifle, wasting bullets. You stayed by his side. That is character and that is honour, and, without thinking far beyond those events alone, just those few minutes or hours, if I did want to protest or annul, I would not.”

Hugo nodded along and wiped her eye with the edge of his free hand. “I still think she should be called Andi.”

With that, Angel shuddered silently and wrapped both arms around his shoulders. She heaved painful, deep breaths before the sound emptied into something that gripped his heart with sadness. He _hated_  when she cried.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find this and a lot more at my tumblr, warmommy.tumblr.com!


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